Pour aider celui qui est dans le besoin
by thecoloursoftheworld
Summary: Series of Les Amis sickfics. Modern AU. Rated T for an impressive amount of swearing and some suggestive dialogue.
1. Nobody Loves You Like Me

**A/N: First up, Jehan/Courfeyrac! For the super amazing perfect Almost an Actress, who's kind of _awesome guys i mean rly_, as well as the lovely Courf the Cat and inthelookingglass. Hope you guys enjoy! xoxo**

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Courfeyrac moaned pathetically and shoved his head deeper into his stiflingly hot pillow—this, unfortunately, only made it harder for him to breathe and he was forced to resurface, sucking air through a heavily congested nose, trying not to wince at the painful swelling in his throat.

"Hi, Courf! So today I was thinking that we could go for a picnic, and then—Courf? Are you all right?"

Courfeyrac blinked several times before his bloodshot eyes allowed him to catch sight of the person standing in the doorway to his bedroom. Jean Prouvaire's long gingery hair was captured in a fishtail plait, with little flowers woven throughout. He was wearing his normal (or perhaps _abnormal_ was a better word, given his attire) clothing—a pair of floral skinny jeans, a violently pink tank top, and a flannel overshirt. "Hey, Jehan," Courfeyrac whispered, not trusting his voice to work properly if he spoke any louder.

"You're sick," Jehan said, and he rushed to the bedside, his face a mask of worry for his best friend.

"No shit, Sherlock," Courfeyrac grumbled.

"Well, at least you're feeling well enough to insult me. That's good, right?"

"No, you idiot. I love you like—like this much—" he spread his arms as far as he could without breaking the laws of physics "-so me insulting you is not a good sign. God. What are you, stupid?"

Jehan smiled. "Well, I'll stay here and take care of you. How does that sound?"

"It sounds fucking awesome, you little shit."

"Right. What hurts the most? No, scratch that, because you're going to tell me that everything hurts the most. What is hurting?"

Courfeyrac struggled into a somewhat-upright position. "My head—kind of hurts like...it feels like it hurts...you know?"

Jehan sighed.

"No, no, don't look at me like that, you prat," Courfeyrac mumbled, shoving a finger against Jehan's lips, eyes half-closed. "It feels like...someone is _pounding_...on it...? And my throat hurts, and I think someone tore out my oesophagus and replaced it with a broken one, and I can't really breathe through my _nose_...?"

Jehan ignored the fluttering in his stomach that erupted at the disgruntled contact, instead focusing on the fact that Courfeyrac was white as a sheet, though his cheeks were flushed with fever. "Well, how much water have you had to drink? And you need to take cough medicine, because it sounds like you're about three seconds away from hacking up a lung," he added, as Courfeyrac began to cough.

The curly-haired man shrugged. "I mean, I've had, like...a glass of water? I don't really remember."

Jehan sighed in exasperation. "Courf, you need to stay hydrated," he said. "Do you have a thermometer? I need to take your temperature. You're really hot." He held the back of his hand against Courfeyrac's forehead.

"It's in...bathroom," Courfeyrac mumbled. Jehan patted his arm and carefully extricated himself from the bed, trying not to jostle the sick man too much. He finally found the thermometer (which was buried under a pile of dirty underpants, empty ibuprofen bottles, and a sheet stained with a questionable-looking substance that Jehan tried very hard not to think about) and returned to Courfeyrac's bedroom.

"Right, this needs to go under your tongue for about three minutes, okay? It's going to feel weird, but it won't hurt. Make sure not to move it around too much or the results will be weird. I'm going to go make you a cup of peppermint tea and I'll be back in a mo."

Courfeyrac nodded and dutifully opened his mouth when prompted, allowing Jehan to insert the metal end of the thermometer underneath his tongue. When Jehan attempted to get up again, however, Courfeyrac grabbed his hand.

"You okay?" Jehan asked, looking worried.

"Yeah, yeah. I just wanted...thank you. For, y'know, this," Courfeyrac said, his voice a little muffled as he pointed to the thermometer in his mouth. He smiled a little, his dimples appearing prominently. Jehan smiled.

"It's my pleasure."

Courfeyrac relinquished his grip on Jehan's hand (and the poet tried not to think about how disappointed he was that the familiar warmth of his friend's fingers had left his own) and Jehan wandered into the kitchen, searching for a mug and teabags.

Jehan hummed as he boiled the water, and he felt a sudden urge to write something down. After he poured the hot water into a mug (it was large and had a cat face painted on the side of it; '_To Courf the cat, from R'_ was written in a familiar scrawl just beneath it), he grabbed a disposable pen and scribbled a few lines of poetry onto the soft skin of his wrist:

_I won't sign a thing, or else if I do_  
_I'll use a pencil and that will show you_  
_How nothing lasts, how nothing is free_  
_Nobody loves you like me_

He smiled, satisfied, and resumed his humming. "What's that on your wrist?"

Jehan jumped and turned to see Courfeyrac, who was holding the thermometer in one hand and scratching the back of his head (which was covered in a shock of dark curls, which in turn Jehan had to force himself not to touch, just to see if they were as soft as they looked). "I—nothing. Just some stupid poetry," Jehan babbled, capping the pen and taking the thermometer from Courfeyrac. "All right, you've got a temperature of 38.3. You're definitely sick, and if you're going to get out of bed, at least lie down on the couch and watch some bad TV or something. I'm almost done making your tea. Er, do you want some toast as well, or eggs or something?"

"Jehan, what's on your wrist?"

"Go and sit down, idiot," Jehan said, and he put his long, thin fingers (perfect for playing piano, which was excellent, given that it was one of Jehan's favourite pastimes) on Courfeyrac's shoulders, steering him expertly into the small living room and onto the big squashy leather couch. Courfeyrac's laugh turned into a series of hacking coughs and he let out a long groan of frustration.

"Courf, you okay?" Jehan knelt down in front of the couch, closely examining his friend's face. Courfeyrac batted him away.

"I'm fine. It's just a stupid cold."

Jehan frowned, but stood up anyway. "Right. I'm going to go finish making your tea. You stay put! If you even _think_ of moving, I will actually kill you and they will not find your body."

The tall, thin poet turned rather fierce when confronted with a sick friend, and Courfeyrac held up his hands in surrender; he seriously doubted that Jehan was lying about killing him. Once a few thugs had ganged up on Courfeyrac and when Jehan was done with them, they could barely manage to limp home.

But, Courfeyrac supposed, that was Jean Prouvaire in a nutshell. Dainty and sweet, and yet incredibly dangerous if you decided to beat up his friends. He loved love, and he loved _to_ love; he was obsessed with the very idea of it. His poetry, while occasionally very dark and depressing (it all depended on his mood), was always encompassed by a general aura of beauty. Jehan was one for writing on any surface he could find, be it paper, walls, or, most often, skin. It did not matter who the surface belonged to, because as he put it, "Poetry is everywhere, so why not let it show on the surface?"

Courfeyrac felt a certain kind of love for his friend that was nearly impossible to describe. In some ways, it was platonic; after all, he had known Jehan for quite literally years. But he sometimes felt a sort of fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach—as if someone had let loose butterflies inside him—when Jehan smiled or laughed. They flirted, yes, but that was simply their personalities, especially Courfeyrac's; he could not help but act flirtatiously. And once or twice Jehan had shown him a bit of poetry (or rather, written a bit of poetry on the exposed skin of Courfeyrac's collarbones) that seemed almost like an invitation to something more, but Courfeyrac also thought that it was simply Jehan being Jehan—after all, he wrote poetry on all of their friends.

Courfeyrac was forced to conclude that although he may have felt something more than romance towards Jehan, the poet definitely did not reciprocate those feelings.

Still, he could not help the love, platonic or not, that he felt for this intrepid man. "Thank you," he said, wincing as his head gave a particularly painful throb.

Jehan smiled and went into the kitchen to fetch the tea; he glanced at his wrist, where the words had become slightly smudged (presumably from him making Courfeyrac go to the couch), and blushed a little. He added some sugar to the mug, accidentally sloshing a bit of hot water onto his slightly shaking hand (which had _absolutely nothing to do_ with the fact that Courfeyrac was renowned for being incredibly cuddly when sick), and took it back to the living room. "Voila," he said. "Gourmet peppermint tea, prepared for you today by yours truly. Now, as a super qualified doctor stop laughing, I am going to prescribe bad TV for you."

"What, like Grey's Anatomy?" Courfeyrac croaked, grinning. Jehan shot him a glare before settling himself on the couch next to him.

"Grey's Anatomy is a very serious documentary about what it's like being a doctor while maintaining your personal life, and there are lots of very dramatic plot twists and character developments, okay?" he said, sniffing snobbishly. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and curled up into a little ball, letting his head fall into Jehan's lap.

"Okay," he whispered. "We can watch your stupid show."

The poet relaxed into the comfortable leather couch, rubbing small circles on Courfeyrac's back with one hand, and turned on the television.

* * *

When Courfeyrac woke up, his head was still in Jehan's lap, and Grey's Anatomy was still on, but the poet was asleep; his head lolled onto the back of the couch, and his mouth was curved into a sweet smile. His hands were entangled in Courfeyrac's dark curls, as if he had fallen asleep playing with them (which, Courfeyrac reasoned, he probably had).

Courfeyrac slowly sat up, careful not to disturb the sleeping man, and removed his mug of now-cold tea, taking a cautionary sip. It was good, despite the noticeable lack of heat, and it helped soothe his throat somewhat. Jehan shifted slightly in his seat, and Courfeyrac noticed a few smudged lines of poetry on his inner right wrist. He knelt down, brushing a stray curl impatiently out of his eye, and peered at the words. He could see almost all of them—the last line was a bit blurry and one word of it was completely illegible.

He sat back, confused. _Nobody you like me_. _Nobody _what's _you like me?_

His thoughts were interrupted by Jehan stirring and letting out an enormous yawn. He stared around blearily before catching sight of Courfeyrac. "Oh, shit. I fell asleep, didn't I? God, I'm sorry, Courf. I'm like, the worst caretaker ever."

Courfeyrac laughed, but quickly abstained, because it turned into a rather painful coughing fit. "No, you're not," he said when he had recovered. "I fell asleep too—probably the only sleep I'm going to get, what with my head and my nose and my throat."

Jehan smiled. "Well, I'm glad that I could be of assistance."

"Jehan, what's that on your arm?" Courfeyrac asked suddenly. The poet's cheeks flushed a pale shade of pink.

"I—I mean, it's just a bit of poetry, why?"

"Well, it's just that you usually tell me what it is. You don't have to, of course, but I was just wondering."

Jehan blinked several times in quick succession and swallowed hard.

"_I won't sign a thing, or else if I do_  
_I'll use a pencil and that will show you_  
_How nothing lasts, how nothing is free_  
_Nobody loves you like me."_

Courfeyrac's eyes widened slightly. "Oh."

"I'm sorry," Jehan said quickly, "it just sort of came to me when I was making your tea. I wasn't trying to—to presume anything, I mean, it's not like you—"

But he found it very difficult to speak after that, what with the warm hands cupping his cheeks and the soft lips pressed against his.

When the two finally broke apart—was it hours later? Years? Jehan couldn't really tell—he smiled shyly. "I'm going to hate you when I get sick."

"No you won't," said Courfeyrac, and he kissed him again, quick and chaste, just a peck. "I love you, Jean Prouvaire."

"I love you too, you big idiot. Now give me a proper kiss, or I'm leaving." Jehan wrapped his long arms around Courfeyrac's neck and tugged him closer.

He could definitely get used to sick days.

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**A/N: If you want me to write one for your ship, please let me know in a review and I will do what I can! xoxo**


	2. If it Wasn't For You

**A/N: ...And on to E/R! this is not so much a sickfic as it is a place for me to pour my endless angst about Enjolras/Grantaire, so sorry if you guys were looking forward to whiny flu-ridden enjolras. hope it's not too bad! xoxo**

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"I want to _die_."

Grantaire rolled his eyes and took another swig of whiskey. "What's wrong this time, Apollo?"

"Don't _call _me that," Enjolras mumbled, but his voice lacked his usual conviction and he did not remove his head from the table. He had just given an especially riveting speech at their weekly meeting, and their friends had left soon after to celebrate something or other. He had promised Courfeyrac that he would follow soon after, but then he had collapsed in the chair opposite Grantaire's with a world-weary moan.

Grantaire set down his glass and prodded Enjolras' shoulder gently. The blond removed one arm from beneath his head and swatted blindly at the semi-drunk man. "Enjolras, what's wrong? You were perfectly fine during the speech."

"No, I wasn't," Enjolras muttered. "My throat hurts like hell and I think my head has something stuck in it, like an ice pick or small jackhammer and I can't _breathe_."

"Apollo, look at me. Now, I may not be a hypochondriac doctor like Joly, but I do know how to tell when someone's sick. I've had to do it plenty of times before." Grantaire did not add the words _when I've been so drunk out of my mind I can barely stand up_, but they were present in his slightly bitter tone.

Enjolras lifted his head off of the table, blue eyes wide. His skin, which had had a healthy glow during the speech, was now pale and ashen, though his cheeks sported a feverish ruddiness. Grantaire cupped his head in his hands and turned it from side to side, observing. "Yeah, you're sick," he confirmed a moment later, but he did not remove his hands. "I'd estimate a fever of about...thirty-nine? So quite high. It's probably the same fever that Courf had a few weeks ago, but if you're lucky—and you're not Bossuet, so there's a good chance that you are lucky—it'll be a milder form. Your fever's higher, but you're not coughing as much. My professional opinion is for you to take a few days off, get plenty of rest and water. There; that satisfy you?"

"Thanks," Enjolras said; his voice was harsh and croaky. "But unfortunately my flat's not really a good place to be."

Grantaire furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the tenant above me left the bath on too long and forgot about it and there's a shit ton of water damage to the ceiling, not to mention the leaks. They've sort of closed it down for repairs and it's not going to be habitable for a few days."

"That's settled then," said Grantaire, finishing the rest of his whiskey and shrugging on his soft green hoody. "You're staying with me—no objections. My flat's probably nicer than yours anyway, even with all of the, er, paintings."

Enjolras tilted his head to one side, confused (Grantaire would have laughed, had it not been so_ fucking adorable_; however, he had the good sense to keep his thoughts to himself, as he did not want the activist to start hating him again, when they had become civil with each other for the first time in a year). "You don't have to do that," Enjolras said, but Grantaire heaved him out of his chair, holding one hand up to silence him.

"No objections. It's—it's my pleasure." A faint red tinge crossed his cheeks and his eyes had a strange glint in them, almost as if he was anxious. The look was gone when Enjolras blinked, however, and the blond was forced to conclude that he had simply imagined the vulnerable sight.

The artist managed to get Enjolras out of the Musain (with a wink and a ten-quid note for Fantine, who ran it) and into his car with no problems. They even managed to agree on a radio station, which was a rarity in and of itself—but then there were the three red lights in a row, and the companionable silence was shattered.

"It would be faster if I cut through here," Grantaire said, turning on his blinker. Enjolras frowned at him.

"Grantaire, you're not supposed to do that. You can't just turn left if you're not in the right lane!"

"Oh, spare me. Everyone else does it—why not me?"

"Well, you could get into an accident, for one!" Enjolras said, straining to shout; his weak voice and swollen throat bested him, however, and he managed nothing more than a hoarse exclamation.

"Oh, good. Maybe then I wouldn't have to sit through three meetings a week of you professing your undying love of the free people!" Grantaire said, his rage sparking. Enjolras looked hurt.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It's supposed to mean that I couldn't fucking _care_ about who insulted who! It doesn't make any difference! In the end, we're all the losers, so why pretend otherwise? Just because you care doesn't mean everyone else does! You're fighting for a lost cause, Apollo."

"No, I'm not! I'm showing the people that there are others that believe in them! Others who want to make a difference, who want to help them!"

Grantaire let out a derisive laugh. "How can you _possibly _believe this shit?"

"How can you not?" Enjolras asked quietly.

Grantaire blinked hard and fast, as if he was fighting back tears. "I don't believe in it because I've lived their lives. My life has been nothing but utter shit, and I don't think a couple of students have the power to change any of it. I make crappy paintings and I drink myself into oblivion. That's what I'm good for. I'd probably be dead right now, too, if it wasn't for—"

He stopped talking abruptly and realised just how heavily he was breathing; he felt like he had just run a marathon. The two were completely silent until he pulled into the car park of his flat building.

"If it wasn't for what?"

Grantaire stopped unbuckling his seatbelt and looked at Enjolras; the blond's piercing blue eyes looked slightly watery.

"If it wasn't for you, Apollo."

Grantaire's voice was hollow and the last two words were so quiet that Enjolras almost didn't catch them. When he did, however, he opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, his illness forgotten, unsurety taking its place in the almost imperceptible lines of his young face.

"Let's go inside. I don't want you to get even sicker on my account," Grantaire said, his voice stiff. He climbed out of the car without another word; the two were silent all the way up to his flat, which resided on the fourth floor. Grantaire unlocked the front door and flicked on the lights, Enjolras following close behind him, trying to muffle the sounds of his coughing. He looked around the interior of the flat—it was large, a two-bedroom for sure, and the space was filled with paintings and drawings. The walls were almost impossible to see behind the mass of colours and scenes (one of the largest and most beautiful works, Enjolras noticed, was of him—or rather, a more French Revolutionary him. It looked like it had been painted with the utmost care, and in a tiny pocket of the bottom right corner Grantaire had signed a single black 'R'). In the spaces the paintings, there was writing; Jehan's.

The poet was known for writing on virtually any surface available, and since he spent so much time with Grantaire it was no wonder that his flowery script had made its way onto the cynic's walls. Aside from art, the living room had a slightly threadbare sofa and two comfortable-looking armchairs, all grouped around the television. A few bookshelves took up a portion of the walls, stuffed to bursting with poetry (Jehan's), law books (Combeferre's), and, strangely, the Harry Potter series. A hallway led to the rest of the flat, with an archway into the small kitchen and three doors placed intermittently.

"Sorry it's so cluttered," Grantaire said, breaking the silence between them. He looked slightly shy, and his eyes kept flicking to the painting of Enjolras.

"It's amazing," Enjolras said, and it may have been his sickness that caused his hushed tone, but he thought it was the wonderment he felt at the sheer multitude of works, all of which were truly spectacular in their own way. Grantaire blushed.

"Um, you can, like, sit down and I can make you a cuppa, if you want. It ought to help your throat a bit, at least. Er, here..." Grantaire began removing several notebooks that were stuffed to bursting and falling apart at the seams, doing everything in his power to hide the drawings from Enjolras. He straightened up, said, "Er, right," and rushed down the hallway—presumably to put(or rather, _hide_)them in his bedroom. When he returned, he found Enjolras staring up at the portrait of him, eyes wide, mouth slightly open in—what? Awe? Disbelief? Disgust?

"Erm, what type of tea did you want?" Grantaire asked. Enjolras turned to him and blinked several times.

"I, um...it doesn't really matter. Just whatever you have is fine."

"Right." Grantaire turned to go to the kitchen, but Enjolras caught his arm. The spots where the blond's fingertips brushed against Grantaire's skin felt like they were on fire, spreading a certain kind of warmth all the way through his body.

"Thank you, Grantaire," Enjolras said, and Grantaire could tell that he meant it—he just had trouble believing it.

"You're welcome," he replied breathlessly, and cursed himself inwardly for feeling disappointed when Enjolras removed his hand. He stayed there for a few seconds, head tilted slightly, staring into Enjolras' bright blue eyes (slightly bloodshot from where he had rubbed them; he had whined, while they were leaving the Musain, about how itchy they were), before turning on his heel and entering the kitchen.

He prepared the tea (he could not remember the flavour; the only things that he was aware of was a vague scent of blueberries and the tingling spots on his forearm that still felt as if they were on fire from Enjolras' touch) with shaking hands, letting out a long string of hissed swearwords strong enough to make a sailor blush when he spilled the boiling water onto his hand. He ignored the stinging sensation that rippled over the slightly pink-tinged skin and wiped it impatiently on his skinny jeans.

Enjolras looked up when Grantaire re-entered the living room, a mug of strong-smelling tea in tow. "Hi," he said, smiling.

"Hi. Um, I haven't really got many films or anything for you to watch—hope that's okay." Grantaire took the seat next to him on the comfortable sofa, setting the mug of tea on the coffee table.

"That's fine. I prefer to talk when I'm sick, stupidly enough."

Grantaire smiled. "That's not stupid. I prefer talking, too. I guess it sort of distracts me from feeling shitty, even though it tends to aggravate my throat. So, what do you want to talk about?"

Enjolras looked straight into his eyes. "You."

"What? Why would you want to talk about me? There's nothing interesting about me."

"Yes, there is. I...I realised that I don't know you very well. Maybe that's because I spend all of my time fighting with you, or maybe I didn't care, but I want to know."

"What do you want to know?"

"Well, for starters...how exactly you ended up in the Amis, in the first place."

"Oh, okay, we're going to go all the way back to my tortured childhood. Yay!" Grantaire said it jokingly, but bitterness was just below the surface of his tone. Enjolras pursed his lips and the artist sighed. "Okay, okay. Prepare for a tale of woe and heartbreak.

"Now, I met Courfeyrac when I was about fifteen, just going into my freshman year of high school. He had this fantastic shirt on—Ceci N'est Pas Une T-Shirt, like that painting, _Ceci N'est Pas Une Pipe_, right? So I told him it was cool and he sort of said something about hipsters and I was like, 'er, no, I'm a _painter_' and we hit it off. We were sort of each other's respective backbone. I helped him through breakups and everything and he helped me through my family life. Before you ask, no, I'm not going into my family life. That's another story for another day. Before you know it, we were graduating! I kind of thought that I would never see the stupid prat again but, lo and behold, we both got accepted to the same university.

"I started out as pre-law, but after three weeks and seven lectures, I decided that I'd rather do something that wouldn't bore me to sleep every time I glanced at a textbook. So I was an art major, a feat that impressed my less artistically inclined friends and made my father want to kill me violently. Anyway, Courfeyrac introduced me to all of his friends—Combeferre, Jehan, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Eponine, Musichetta. He said something about them being in a sort of revolutionary club of some kind and asked me to come to the next meeting so that he could introduce me to a friend.

"I declined at first, simply because I'm such a cynical non-believer, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to handle any fruity speeches whilst sober, but eventually the group convinced me to go. I walked in, whiskey in hand, and I think I might have gone temporarily mute. The person who was standing on the stage reserved for bands was tall and a fiery sort of light seemed to emanate from his every pore. He was saying how we need to take a stand and fight for our rights, to prove to the government that they don't own us, and for once in my life I could see it.

"I could see the world as a better place, with more radiance than I had ever thought possible. It was beautiful, to be honest. But the words didn't matter to me. I had and _have _heard the words a hundred times over; they are nothing to me anymore. What really made the words important was the man. He had long blond curls and piercing blue eyes and the only rational thought in my entire brain was that he was a dead ringer for Apollo. Anyway, Courf introduced him to me as Enjolras. He looked at me like I was a piece of dirt on the bottom of his shoe, but that might have been because I was drunk and I hadn't bothered to shave or anything.

"Nevertheless, I sat through the rest of the meeting, and when I went home that night I threw out every bit of alcohol that I had in my flat. I just wanted to show Enjolras that I could be sober, that I could be a believer too. I guess it didn't work, because when I went back to another meeting after three weeks of withdrawal, I said, 'I don't believe in anything,' and Enjolras looked at me and he told me three words. _You repel me._

"I still went to the meetings, of course, because I was friends with everyone else there, but I was always dead drunk and I interrupted regularly with rude comments about how nobody gave two shits about the people. Do you know, I never stopped believing in Enjolras. I even painted his dream world once, just to try to see for myself. I was, for lack of a better word, obsessed with him and his infinite perfection. I just tried to forget that he hated me." Grantaire smiled sadly. Enjolras' mouth was slightly open. "There's my story," Grantaire said. "Told you it was full of woe and heartbreak."

"Grantaire, I don't hate you," Enjolras said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Really? Are you sure, because from where I'm standing it sure looks that way," Grantaire retorted sourly.

Enjolras winced at the jab. "Grantaire, I've never hated you. Sure, I get disappointed when you drink yourself into oblivion, because that's no way to live. I just want to make you believe in the things that I believe in. I could never hate you. I can barely even stand to dislike you."

Grantaire was avoiding his gaze, hardly managing to believe that the words were even coming out of the blond's mouth at all. "Grantaire, look at me."

The cynic swallowed hard at the gentle utterance, but abstained. "Grantaire." The word was hardly a whisper, and Enjolras reached over and cupped Grantaire's face in his hands, turning his head towards him.

"I _don't _hate you. How could I possibly hate you? You're—sure, you're a bit of a drunk, and you're cynical and don't really believe in the things that I do, but you're so much more than that. You—you're amazing. I mean, look at all of these! They're beautiful. And if anyone tells you differently, if anyone says that you're not perfect, I'll personally set them straight."

Grantaire looked dazed at the words tripping over themselves to get out of Enjolras' mouth. "I—" his voice died and he swallowed before trying again. "I love you, Apollo. Always have."

Enjolras rolled his eyes and leaned forward. The kiss was not passionate or frenzied—it was new and exciting and exploratory, both of them trying to get used to the feel of the other's mouth on their own. Grantaire's stubble was sure to leave a burn on Enjolras' cheeks but he couldn't care less, not with the cynic melting into his arms, not with the impossible amount of pure _feeling _rushing through his veins.

When they broke apart, both were panting and Enjolras' cheeks were flushed. Grantaire was straddling him, fingers entangled in the golden curls at the nape of Enjolras' neck, eyes wide. He leaned forward so that their lips were mere inches apart and whispered, breath hot against Enjolras' skin, "Do you permit it?"

"You're an idiot," Enjolras murmured back before capturing the artist's lips once more.

* * *

**A/N: the next one shall be Musichetta/Joly/Bossuet!**


End file.
